Flowers quickly fading
by SILENTSANCTUARY
Summary: Seeking refuge from their past lives, Namine and Marluxia, two different people united by a common similarity, meet under harsh circumstances, quickly spiraling into a whirlwind relationship. ALTERNATE UNIVERSE.
1. Chapter 1

[RATED M FOR LANGUAGE, ADULT THEMES & VIOLENCE.]  
This steadily gets more violent by chapter so watch out.  
& this is currently in progress.

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Namine met Marluxia when she was fifteen. At that time, she had just escaped from the high-class lifestyle she had always lived and begun living what her parents warned her as the "street life." At fifteen, she was already experiencing the horrors of being an adult with nowhere to live. At fifteen, she felt like thirty, with the eyes to prove it.

Marluxia was twenty and his story is much more complicated. After two years of formal college education, he dropped out and got himself involved in the drug business but never got his hands dirtied with the blood of someone else. For that, there was always Axel. He was merely the schemer, the architect behind the killings.

Both were from prestigious families. Had they reluctantly given in to their parents' demands, they would have been living luxuriously, indulging in their parents' wealth but both chose to drop out of the life their parents' had planned for them although for different reasons.

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For Namine, it started with her love of art and things of aesthetic value. From the beginning, she knew she was different. She saw things differently from her parents and despite her parents' attempts to crush her moralities in order to toughen her up for the business world, this one thing did not change about her.

Her parents owned several companies, rights to a couple of commonly used products and invested wisely in stocks and shares. Throughout her entire life, she would only see her parents maybe a couple of times a year due to the fact that their work took them away from home and often away from Marseilles where she lived. In the future, she was to be expected to take their place in the business world. Her parents explicitly made sure that would happen. With every day tutors, renowned teachers, training her in preparation for her to claim their industries, the only thing she _really_ learned in the end was that she was never meant to be a corporate manager.

She knew her calling in life was to become an artist, but her parents' strongly rejected her dream, her passion. "You'll never be able to live off with such a meager salary," her mother had said in scornful tones, "You are our only child and a child is expected to obey their parents' wishes. You are to run our business someday. Put all these silly dreams aside."

When it became clear that her parents' adamant nature propelled them to support her dream of becoming an artist, she ran away to Paris with the money she stole from her parents' back. At first, it was enough to pay for the shabby apartment she rented and enough food to last for a while, but once the money ran out, she was forced to live in the streets, relying on passerby to pay for the few paintings she had to show during the day. So far, few had bought them and when they did, it was only out of pity and the money was only enough to last for a couple of days. After weeks of living this hostile lifestyle, she was beginning to understand what her mother said about an artist having a meager salary.

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For Marluxia, his rebellion from his lifestyle "officially" started when he was sixteen, old enough to realize life was much more than stark business suits and scouring the dictionary for impressive vocabulary meant to impress people – just to make a living. Unfortunately, for his parents, this was their life. They believed that intelligence equaled to success in life and to live without it, was to live a life of a fool.

Understandably, they trained their children to think this way as well – that all of life's problems could be solved with logic and understanding. Marluxia couldn't remember the last time his parents' had taken him and his brother out for something recreational like a visit to a park or the movies. Now, whenever he tried to think of something fun he had done in his childhood, he couldn't think of one instance. For him, it had always been textbooks, technical terms drilled into his brain by his parents' instruction and constant streams of tutors and personal teachers.

Although his brother embraced this kind of lifestyle without a complaint, he had always rejected it deeply in the inside but never did anything to betray his true emotions until he was sixteen. At sixteen, tired of living as his parents' guinea pig, he dyed his once red-brown hair, a shocking shade of pink that directly went against the way his parents' raised him.

At first, his parents didn't know what to say of his sudden, rash action. They went to psychologists, suggested pills for him to take for his "teen angst" and went to every source of help that they could find. Marluxia would never forget the time how his mom tried to wash the pink dye off his hair but failing to do so. Also, he would never forget the rush of adrenaline in his veins when she stepped out of the barbershop, with hair that turned heads and made him stand out in a crowd of people. It was his way of telling others that he was different from his stiff-necked family members.

The second act of rebellion was the drugs. Marluxia remembered the first whiff of marijuana a student offered him on school campus – the rush of high and then low. He remembered buying bags and bags of these stuff and getting stoked at home, his mind a cloudy haze and his surroundings a blur. It wasn't long until he became addicted and his parents quickly rushed him into rehabilitation where he humored all the facilitators, while secretly he planned his next smoke, his next high when he got out.

The third act of rebellion was the sex. He didn't have it as often as Axel, but once he did, he liked to take control of the one he was overpowering. He liked to watch their faces crumble once they realized he wasn't the fine gentleman he had portrayed himself to be, their hearts broken once he left them. The last person he had sex with was only fourteen while he was eighteen -- and even though he had gotten her pregnant, he refused to help her out once she confessed to him. Three days later, she killed herself and her parents who were unaware of their daughter's previous relationship, found out soon afterward and blamed him for their daughter's death. It caused quite a scandal within his family for some time [much arguing had broken out] but like the hair dying and the drugs, his parents were once again, powerless against his actions.

After that, he made his rebellious nature known and his parents became unable to stop him. Their last attempt to "moralize" him was sending him to a prestigious private school where they hoped that the pressure of college would lead him away from the lifestyle he had chosen to get himself into. In the end, even this attempt proved futile. He dropped out of college two years after being admitted and disconnected from his family all together. It turned out that _they_ were the fools in the end – for trying to mold him into the person he could not be.

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The circumstances in which Namine met Marluxia were peculiar. Out of no where, after many weeks of living on the streets and coming to think that life wasn't going to get any better for her, Marluxia appeared and offered her a home, a shelter. He saw her as a potential tool to use in his next scheme – one that involved the leaders of the mafia he was connected to, the notorious _Organization._ Namine saw it as an opportunity to escape from the streets. She was so desperate for a way to get herself back on track again, she might have accepted any kind of help even if it was from a stranger.

At first, Marluxia was kind to her. It was this kind personality that she fell in love with after many weeks of living on the streets. She remembered spending time with him, growing roses in small gardening pots they placed on the windowsill. By and by, the roses would bloom and she would chart their progress with the sketchbook he bought for her. Every day, she would draw a new picture of the roses until she reached the very last page of the sketchbook. On this last page, the roses had blossomed into fully-grown beauties, their petals a dusty shade of red – the type of red that wasn't the color of lipstick but rather the color of worn carpet, a type of red that had a beauty of its own.

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The first time, Marluxia kissed Namine, he was high off a mixture of crack, marijuana and alcohol. Namine was fully aware of Marluxia's addiction to drugs, but it never bothered her before – until now. She wrenched herself free of those drugged lips. Didn't he know that he was too old for her? That the age difference from fifteen and twenty wasn't something that you'll brag about? She watched him stagger towards her, cobalt blue eyes dilating into black, feverish and unfocused. When he stumbled and snagged his toe on one of the rattraps he had placed earlier on the corner of the room, Namine quickly hurried to remove it from his bruising large toe. He passed out while she was trying to remove it, probably unaware of what had just happened.

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The second time he kissed her he wasn't drugged or drunk. He was frustrated with how she was trying to evade him for the past few days after the incident. While she was watering the flowers they kept on the windowsill, he fiercely spun her around and locked his lips with hers. She had tried to pull away, but he had one hand clamped around her jaw, pulling her towards him. When it became clear that resisting was futile, she stopped trying to pull away and let his lips slowly pass over hers over and over again, tracing the skin around her mouth, stopping only to kiss some other part so that he made sure it wasn't missed.

When he pulled away, he cradled her head with his hands and looked at her with cold eyes. "I hope you're still not mad at me because you and I are going to be here for a long time. You're going to have to get used to it. Are you satisfied now? You made me kiss you." He released his hold on her head. "I thought that is what you wanted."

She immediately twisted her head away from him, turning red. She focused her attention on watering the flowers although the can was empty and the soil in the pot was already soaked. She only dared to look back when she heard Marluxia walk away from her and begin lighting a bong with the marijuana he stuffed in it, apparently wanting to forget what had happened.

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The third time he kissed her, he wasn't drugged or drunk. He wasn't frustrated either. It had blossomed out of pure need. He had just come home late at night, waking her up with the slam of the door. She heard the fridge opening, the clink of a bottle being opened and the sigh that followed after he had taken a great swallow. A few seconds later, he had entered her room, pulling the blanket down to reveal her already open eyes and mouth. He appraised her for about ten seconds or so before he bent down to brush his lips to her own. Their lips were only joined by the thinnest of flesh and skin, but she allowed him to kiss her this time. She rose up from her sheets like a pale ghost to press her hand against his that was just lying not too far away from him.

Later, he threw away the blanket to the floor and began pressing his lips harder against hers, arm pressed against to her back, lifting the fabric of her shirt. Choking for breath, she pushed him away.

"What are you doing?"

Marluxia swept her pale blond hair away from her cheeks, the threads of her hair still clinging to his fingers. "I thought that's what you wanted."

"N-no," she stammered, backing away from him. He moved in closer, clamping a hand on her arm. "I don't think I'm ready for all of this –"

"Well, that's a problem," he said, moving impossibly close, close enough for their faces to touch. His lips grazed the soft inside of her ear. "Because I'm ready for all of this."

"Please," she begged, trying to free herself away from his grasp. Her hands only managed to pry one finger free. "Stop."

His smile was like a blade slicing through the darkness, illuminated by the glow of city lights outside her window. "That's too bad," he drawled, unzipping his pants, dropping them to the floor. "Because it's already happening."

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The next day she was cold, the type of cold that needed the warmth of another body to satisfy. She curled closer towards Marluxia, head resting on the crook of his arm. He had left purple and blue bruises on her arms last night, bruises that he had apologized for over and over again, but they will heal. Bruises always healed. Right?

In the beginning, she had been agitated, trying every bit of effort to resist him, but once she tired herself out by trying to remove those hands locked onto her arms to keep her from moving, she relinquished herself. Now, she touched the parts of her skin where it swelled. If she hadn't been so resistant, she wouldn't have gotten these bruises in the first place.

She tried to fall back to sleep, listening to the steady sound of Marluxia's breathing as a way to lull herself back asleep. The clock ticked nearby, telling her of the minutes that had passed since she woke up. Finally, unable to lie around any longer, she got up, dressed and made her way to the kitchen to get herself something to eat.

After she had eaten her cereal, she went to water the roses as part of her daily routine. When she bent down to tip the water can towards the flowerpots, she made a shocking discovery.

The roses had begun to wither.


	2. Chapter 2

Namine could not understand why the roses were starting to deteriorate at a quickening rate. Despite ample amounts of fertilizer and watering, the petals continued to brown, curl up and fall off. By the end of the week, she had given up trying to save them. She would just have to settle with buying new ones.

It was around that time when her relationship with Marluxia had started to take a sharp turn into abuse and violence. He became overly possessive of her, leaving the apartment only to restock on food and drugs. Other than that, he operated his business in the apartment room, spent afternoons getting high then drunk and when the night finally came, he would get wasted on her, most of the time unaware of the pain he was inflicting upon her.

With each passing day, she accumulated new bruises where he had held her down and scratches where his fingernails had dragged across her skin. And this time, they wouldn't heal. They stuck to her skin like permanent scars – crisscrossing landmarks across her pale skin.

There was this one scar that she would never forget – the one sketched into the midcenter of her thigh. Sometimes she would unconsciously trace her finger across the white puckered lines stretched over her skin, thinking of its traumatic origin like a tape recorder without a pause or stop button, replaying itself over and over again.

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It was a winter day but the sun had managed to unveil itself through the blanket of gray clouds, shining through the frost that covered their window. They had gotten into the habit of waking late in the morning, their bodies tired from the night before. Although most of the time, Namine woke up earlier than Marluxia, sometimes it was the other way around, only Marluxia didn't leave the bed to get himself something to eat. Instead he watched her in her slumber, waiting for her to awaken. Sometimes, he would trace circles into her skin as she slept, fingers crossing over bruised skin – lips kissing those black and blue circles as a way of expressing his apologies.

This time, when she woke up, Marluxia loomed over her, cobalt blue eyes intensely searching for any signs of stirring in her face. When her own eyes had focused to the sudden stream of light that illuminated the white walls of her room, she saw that the light was also reflected off another surface – the knife Marluxia was holding over her. She quickly jumped back, arms grabbing the blanket to cover herself. In the knife's reflection, she saw herself looking back, pale and frightened.

"Good morning, my darling," he crooned, lifting her chin with one finger. With the other hand, he started to cut through the blanket so that the flat end of the knife touched her leg. She began to shake. "I see that you're finally awake."

She shook her head out of his grasp, trying to get off the bed so that she could put her clothes on. Marluxia pushed her back down, clamping one leg on top of her stomach and using the other to twist around her own leg.

"You're quite feisty today. I figured that might happen." Under the blanket he moved the knife ever so carefully so that the sharp end touched her skin.

"What are you doing?" she asked in a mortified whisper, fingers twisting into the blanket.

He held a hand against her throat. Illuminating his features was the smile of a madman, eyes burning blue then black. "I'm going to make you mines. And don't worry." His voice was as delicate as a butterfly's wing. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The whole time she was struggling against him, he carved his name onto her skin with the knife he had in his hand, making sure that the cuts were deep enough so that blood streamed out of the open wounds. When he finally released her, she pulled back the blanket to discover that the skin on her thigh was red and raw, burning like a fire that wouldn't be quenched. She sobbed in agony, all the time, trying to rub the away the blood streaming down her leg and the letters etched into her skin but the blood continued flowing and the words written across her thigh, spelling out his name were eternal.

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Over the next few days, the wounds gradually healed and the little red marks closed up as if an invisible thread was knitting her flesh back together. But the scar remained, a bunch of little white lines joined together to spell one word. Marluxia.

This time, he did not apologize for his sudden act of violence neither did he make amends by kissing the skin with the words of his name etched upon it. And that was when the butterfly kisses upon her bruises, her scars, stopped all together.


	3. Chapter 3

By the end of the month, her skin had turned a waxen shade of white-gray and her body was nothing more than a cluster of bones sticking out from her ribcage. A few weeks later, the childhood roundness had left her cheeks and her skin had a strange papery feel to it when he ran his tongue along the valley of her chest. She always remained limp in his arms, a little doll whose limbs had stiffened to their sides.

When he peels off her clothes in order to satisfy his sickly desires, she neither responds nor protests. She only knows that if she doesn't move, it would all end quicker and maybe – maybe he would stop mistreating her and allow her to recuperate under his abuse.

When he did get tired of her, it was because her body had deteriorated so much, the old games of pinching her skin so hard that it bruised and using his knife to cut his own markings into the flat plane of her legs didn't excite him anymore. She would still sleep by his side, undressed to his liking, but he grew less aroused by every passing day. By the fifth month of living with her, he only played with her out of boredom or to relieve his anger. He could care less if she collapsed under his tactics.

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It was a matter of time before he started accompanying Axel to local strip clubs and bars just to experience the city life he was missing out during all those months of staying in his apartment, running his business. On those days, he would lock her in his room, just so that she couldn't escape when he was away. By the second week of his new lifestyle, the idea of killing her was beginning to seem likely.

He would get ideas of how to kill her when he was drunk. Rolling images – figments of his twisted thoughts would play in his mind while he poured himself another drink. He thought about slowly choking that small neck of hers until her skin turned blue and her eyes rolled back into her head. He thought about raping her before he quickly slit her throat – a pool of blood gathering under the sheets. He thought of killing her slowly, cutting off those pale fingers that she used to draw, making his way towards her collarbone where he would linger before cutting off sections of her flawless skin. She would scream, she would beg for mercy for him to end it already – but he would ignore her pleas. Her life was like a flower sitting unprotected in an empty field. With any given moment, he could crush it and the flower wouldn't have anything to say about it because everyone knew that flowers did not have minds of their own. Even if they did, what defenses would they put up in order to stop him from doing what he wanted?

All choices – all methods seemed good to him. But he wouldn't kill her, yet. She could still prove of some value to him – for another scheme had crossed his mind.

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One day, he stumbled home to his apartment room late at night. Even though Axel said that he could drink an ungodly amount of alcohol before he got drunk, somewhere between his second bottle of vodka and Hennessey's, he had gotten intoxicated. When he did, he was an uncontrollable beast, unusually cruel to the point where he lashed out at everyone in the bar and Axel [drunk himself] had to drive him home.

On the backseat of the car, he was roughly kissing the lipstick mouth of some prostitute whose hair was dyed a bright lemon yellow. He remembered her teeth biting into the inside of his lip, until blood ran down his mouth. He pulled back astonished. What kind of woman was she – to resist _him,_ a member of the notorious _Organization?_ For a moment he thought of slapping her like he usually did when Namine resisted against him, but he beat back the temptation. Instead, he pushed himself back towards the mysterious woman, intending to kiss her even if she didn't want to.

The lemon-head pulled a set of knives from her pocket, pressing the flat blades against his neck. He laughed, pulling out his own knife. She hissed at such retaliation, digging her knives deeper into his neck. She whispered cruelly into his ear, breath smelling like the red cherries the bartender would put into his drink –

"No money, no service."

Right, she was a prostitute. He dug into the pocket of his black overcoat and trickled a shower of green bills onto her lap. She counted the money and seemingly satisfied, she climbed onto his lap, legs grinding against his – lips moving harshly against his own –

And it was all a blur then. Axel had stopped in front his apartment, wrenched the two apart and pushed them into the lobby. The guy at the check-in desk seemed alarmed at their arrival, but he didn't say anything once Axel glared at him with emerald eyes. Once they got into the elevator, he and that lemon-head were kissing again. God, he wanted to peel back that skin-tight black shirt she was wearing and have his way with her –

Axel unlocked the door for him; his hands were too drunk to steady the keys. They burst through the door, violently collapsing onto the couch that waited their arrival. Axel smirked, closing the door before he removed her clothes – and she slid the overcoat off his chest.

"Have fun," he said through the closed door although they were both too far away to hear him. "I hope that blond girl of yours isn't too upset that you've abandoned her for some other skinny bitch."

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Inside the apartment room, behind the locked door of his room, Namine shook in revulsion and in half-fear at the sounds of their lovemaking. She curled up closer towards her chest, leaned against the door and waited for the shaking to subside and for the door to be unlocked.

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When he woke up, he was in a nasty mood, his groins were flaring and his head ached of a hangover. Perched at his elbow, was the woman he had spent the night with yesterday. Under the dirtied sheets, she procured a couple of cigarettes, offered one to him while she held the lighter. He lit the cigarette end, bought it to his mouth and took a deep inhale before exhaling. He never liked smoking in general – he preferred weed to nicotine, but he smoked anyways.

His eye caught a set of knives placed onto the table – her clothes and his clothes lying in a jumble under it. A small compact mirror had fallen out of her pants pocket and next to it, was his knife. While she smoked, he rummaged through the contents of her shirt pockets. She didn't do anything to protest though. He found black eyeliner and eyeshadow, the money he had given her, a small bag of crack and a needle filled with heroin. He looked back at her. She had green-blue eyes – peroxide hair that was gelled to her head. Her makeup was smudged and ruined and she had the overall look of a junkie – but she was hard – and beautiful.

"What's your name?" he asked. His hand found the inside of her thigh and began rubbing it in small circles. She kicked him on the leg and he withdrew his touch.

"Larxene. Don't wear it out," she said, lighting another cigarette. "If you want more service, you're going to have to pay for it."

"What if I don't want to pay for it? What if I forced you to have sex with me?"

"I'll kill you," she said simply, a pretty smile on those pretty lips. She took her knives from the table and ran a finger down one of them. "These knives had killed a fair number of men that tried to have their way with me without paying. Oh look –" she spotted a small copper-brown stain on one of her knives. "A bloodstain. How lovely." Her sharp fingers rubbed away the crusty blood.

"You're quite aggressive when you want to," he said, eyeing her set of knives. "Bur I like it." He tipped her chin forward, cobalt blue eyes meeting green-blue ones. "Don't you like me too?"

"The fuck I don't," she said without batting an eye. "I'm only for it for the money."

She slapped his hand away, grabbed her clothes and began dressing herself. As she slipped that black tank top over her head and over those perfect breasts, he looked at her, thinking of some way to make her stay for a little longer.

He dug into his pants pocket, taking out a wad of cash. He counted a few twenties, a scant number of fifties before handing it to her. She was just beginning to put her panties back on.

"Come by during the afternoon?"

She took the money, pocketing it inside her shirt. "Alright then."

He sat back with a feeling of content, reaching under his couch for the bag of weed he had stashed and watched her hips sway as she walked to the door, pulled it open and stepped outside. When she slammed it shut, he knew he was gone –

At least for the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

For the next few weeks, the room became her prison. A few days ago, this was made literal, for Marluxia had installed metal bars outside the window, applied a freshly coat of black paint to ink out the glass and barricaded the door with lock. Food was inserted though a small flap he installed into the door and when the food made it to the room, he secured the flap tight with another lock. There was no light except for the light that spilled into the room from the door crack; Marluxia had cut off the electricity running into her room, so despite many attempts of fumbling in the dark, finding the light switch and desperately flicking it on and off, the light bulb did not turn on and she remained in a room of perpetual darkness.

She began to develop claustrophobia. Surely the walls were starting to close in around her until the very air she breathed was heavy and stank of the smell of her own waste. She clawed at the door and begged for release, then tried to break the window glass, but her attempts her futile and often tired her out.

Even the makeshift prison room didn't stop Marluxia from coming in and abusing her. He came during the morning when she would be sleeping, usually choking her until she fell unconscious against his grasp. Once he was sure that she wasn't responding, he pried off her clothes, dropped his pants and violated her. Sometimes he would bring Larxene as well. With her set of knives and his own, they carved markings in her naked skin, zigzagging across her arched back. Although Larxene wanted to mar her pretty face as well, Marluxia never let that happen. "No," he would say, as his knife paused at her neck, making its decision to retrace the scar running down the valley of her chest, "Not until we kill her."

And when they were finished with her and their hands left her tortured body, they would get high, smoke, get drunk and then fuck. Namine, an empty shell of a fifteen-year-old girl would be sprawled across the floor, holding her sordid clothes against her naked form, hearing all the sounds of their violent lovemaking and wish for the end to come. By then, she didn't care how her life ended as long as she was away from this ceaseless torture.

It was December when Marluxia finally allowed her freedom from her room – but she was still confined to the apartment. From the calendar on the wall, it was almost Christmas – a full year since she had left her parents, since she had met Marluxia. It suddenly occurred to her that at this very moment, her parents might be back home in Marseilles celebrating the very first Christmas without her. She dropped to the floor and wept for the life she had so recklessly abandoned until Marluxia who decided that it was better if she was back in her room, carried her curled up body wracking with sobs and dumped her back into her bed. He lied next to her, breath moistening onto her cold skin, rocking her back and forth until she stopped crying and fell victim to exhaustion. Like the previous winter, she curled up on the crook of Marluxia's arm, almost forgetting that he was the monster that had been the cause of all her scars and bruises – until he pulled out his knife, crusted with her blood and began running it down her leg, retracing the puckered lines that spelled out his name.

Slowly but surely, the door to her room became unlocked and she began to wander around the apartment room without succumbing to her crying fits. Life had begun picking up its rhythm again.

Months ago, she had fallen deep in a dark abyss of desperation, but slowly and surely, she had begun clawing her way out.


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